A Malfoy Doesn't Cry
by dancy
Summary: Draco thinks back over memories that stand out in his mind. Contains slash. HarryDraco


 Disclaimer: I own no one and nothing.

**A Malfoy Doesn't Cry.**  
  
If sanity came from your mind forgetting or ignoring certain details of existence, he was sure he remembered it all.  
  
He remembered the feeling of his housemates' eyes on the back of his neck as he left the locker room, still sweaty, still somewhat bothered. Their words of reconciliation, their subtle words of blame had, for once fallen on deaf ears. It wasn't that he hadn't heard them -- the acoustics in the locker room somehow made words ring, made them become twice their volume until the only way you could find peace was to absorb and ignore. That was what Draco had done.  
  
He remembered a time when he was young, seven years or thereabouts. It had been a party, thrown by his parents so that they could immerse him and themselves into the aristocratic culture that would be the foundation of the rest of his life. He could remember exactly what the guest had looked like -- a gentleman with long grey hair, vaguely reminiscent of Dumbledore's. The man had been dressed in a red cloak, deep blood red. His voice had been raspy, deep in his throat, and it sent chills down Draco's body, little, repulsed chills that he doubted he could hide very well, even at seven. He could remember, to this day, the man's exact words.  
  
"You're going to grow up to be very much like your father."  
  
He remembered the noise that filtered through the crowd; little gasps and noises of surprise that he had not paid much mind to at first, until he had felt his father's hand land heavily on his shoulder.  
  
"Draco. _Stop_ that."  
  
He had jerked to a halt, his mind at first wondering what it was he had been doing until he looked around the room, when he had bitten his lip in just a touch of surprise. Everything -- the food, the walls, the cieling, the floor, and a few of the more unfortunate guests had been covered with a thin sheet of ice. He had apologized, particularly to the guest he had been talking to, whose beard had become a brittle victim of the cold, and then he had been shuffled off to bed by Narcissa's cold hand on the shoulder his father had touched. He had never managed to warm up that night.  
  
That was when he realized that he would never grow up to be like his father.  
  
He remembered another night, not so very long ago. He had been eating dinner with the rest of Slytherin. Pansy's hand had been on his arm, her nails digging in with enough pressure to make him wince. He had brought his eyes up, smiling at Goyle's words about tripping Longbottom as he wandered by, and he had looked to Gryffindor, looking for Neville so that he could recover his trademarked smirk. Instead, he had caught a glimpse of black hair, tousled and shining in the light. Potter. He had kept his eyes lingering there, just for a minute. Long enough to see Weasley say something to make Potter and Granger laugh, Potter's dimples made his heart hurt, and it only took a second longer for Potter to catch his eyes and throw him a glare.  
  
He knew what had happened this time, when Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle had gasped turning to him, suddenly, flashes of movement in the foreground of his vision. Pansy had dropped his arm, quickly, and Draco had understood why. Cold burnt. Draco got to his feet, then, murmuring apologies as he left the fake warmth and camaraderie of the dinner room.   
  
And that was when he knew exactly why he would never be like his father.  
  
He could remember every second of the game vividly. Gryffindor had been as solid as they always were. If he hadn't have been a Malfoy, he would have been forced to admit that they were the better team. It didn't matter, though, all that mattered was whether or not he was the better Seeker. He caught sight of the Snitch just a half a second after Harry. It was the story of his life -- always a few seconds late. He had been closer, though, and the snitch was flying towards him, he moved towards it, as Harry had sped forward, both of them diving with the Snitch. It was when they were only about ten feet above the ground that he had realized something. He was winning; he was going to get the Snitch.  
  
It only took a second for Draco to look back, and see Harry's face. It was full of desperation; a horrible need to achieve... it was filled with dread. Harry had realized he was behind. It only took a split second for Draco to make his choice, for him to realize what was going on, only a second to weigh the two decisions he could have made.  
  
He let go, making it look like his grip had slipped. The impact with the ground forced the air out of his lungs, making it all the easier for him to school his features into looks of shock, of pain. He hadn't fallen far enough to be seriously injured, but he knew the bruises would last for awhile. He had always bruised easily. Potter, for his part, had caught the Snitch. Gryffindor had won the Quidditch game, to no one's particular surprise.   
  
That was how Draco showed his love.  
  
He left the locker room, walking slowly because he still hurt, inside and out. He had not gone back to his dorm room -- being around his housemates held little appeal for him. Instead, he had climbed up to the astronomy tower, settling beside one of the windows that looked out over the lake. He was shivering, why he didn't really know. He felt cold, inside more than out.  
  
He didn't know how long he sat there, before soft words made him turn away from the view.   
  
"You're frosting over the window, Malfoy."  
  
Harry looked more disturbed than concerned. It was alright, Draco was used to that kind of action. He spoke softly in return. He felt no compulsion to make this into a confrontation.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"There's no reason to apologize. I was just stating the fact of the matter." Harry had moved closer, sitting beside Draco, and wiping clean a circle in the glass, so that he could see out. "Why did you throw the game?"  
  
Drace didn't answer, a little self-deprecating smile taking his face over. It only took a few seconds for Harry to catch on, and he sighed. The line of frost rose further on the window.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Malfoy. Why don't you just cry and let this out?"  
  
Draco's voice was soft when he spoke, but deadly serious. It sounded emotionally cold, however, as if he was simply quoting something someone had said to him. As he remembered it, he was. "A Malfoy doesn't cry."  
  
Harry brought a hand up, around Draco's shoulders to pull him closer. Close enough to drop a kiss on Draco's forehead. "I guess it's good that you have nothing to cry about, then."   
  
For the first time in his life, Draco didn't feel nearly as cold.


End file.
